


Understood

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Thorin/Dwalin is very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:29:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf and the Company are required to visit Dol Guldur after Radagast speaks of a Necromancer, forcing Thorin to deal with the difficulties of finding his father alive after years of believing he died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Understood

**Author's Note:**

> neverlandlost.tumblr.com
> 
> \- [Read here](neverlandlost.tumblr.com/tagged/thrain) about theories Thrain could be alive due to the trailer.

**

“Do not allow Thorin to see this,” he hears Gandalf say. The order is directed at Dwalin. “Do _not_ allow Thorin to see this!”

Dol Guldur is a dangerous place.

There is nothing here to harm him, them, the Company.

Though the air is putrid, wretched, drenched with evil that has now fled.

Thorin does not understand. Dwalin does, though, and once he returns from Gandalf his face is pale and drawn.

“Thorin…”

_He must know._

He fights his way through the arms of his men, he struggles though not in vain. They cannot contain him when he is at his most stubborn, at his most fierce.

He will see what Gandalf hides from him.

Gandalf tries to stop him, but Thorin sees it. He sees him.

A Dwarf, unknown to him sits like a child with his legs crossed in the middle of the dirty, gritty stone chamber, roofless, alight with moonshine.

Ragged, filthy, wild. Deranged.

Who _is_ this Dwarf? Why is he _here?_

He steps forward, Radagast tries to deny him but falters.

He runs his gaze over the Dwarf, tamed by Gandalf’s magic, yet still he does not recognise the stranger.

Gandalf gives the Dwarf a wet cloth, and he dutifully cleans his face, balding head, his fingers, his forearms.

There is a tattoo etched into his forehead. His left eye is sewed shut.

Oh, Mahal, no. _No!_

Is he dreaming? Is he delirious? This is his worst nightmare, in the flesh.

Tears well in his eyes, stinging his eyelids at their force. A terrible looming wave engulfs him, forces him to his knees. He crawls to the Dwarf like a beggar, sobbing so loudly it burns his throat and deafens him to anything around him.

Thrain.

His father sits in front of him.

“No - ” He croaks, blinded with grief. He is blinded with guilt.

He reaches for his father with trembling hands, fingers shaking like broken leaves in the wind.

“Please,” He begs to no one in particular. “Please, no - “

His father looks at him strangely, he does not recognise him. His eyes are clear, though his memory is glazed.

“Thrain,” Gandalf whispers tenderly, “This is your son, Thorin. Your eldest child. Do you remember him?”

Tears run into his beard as his father denies Gandalf.

The wizard presses a hand to the back of Thrain’s head. A dim light grows there briefly, then fades.

“Tho - _reen?”_ Thrain tilts his head in wonder.

He sobs at the child like pronunciation. He has not cried this way since he was a Dwarfling. Water soaks his breeches at the knees as he crawls closer.

“Father,” he whispers, brokenly.

_“Mine?”_ Thrain asks Gandalf, staring at Thorin in the face.

Gandalf nods, “He is your eldest child,” he repeats softly.

He removes his furred coat and drapes it around his father’s shoulders. What little resolve he maintained breaks when Thrain curls up in the warmth it holds.

“Dada,” He has not used the endearment since he was a child. His voice quivers.

“Thorin,” His father says again, correctly.

He cups Thorin’s cheek in a thin, dirty palm, eyes running over his face.

“Mine,” Thrain murmurs, “My child.”

A lump grows in his throat, silencing him, so he nods at his father who manages a crooked half-smile.

His father is this Dwarf. This deranged, tortured, starved Dwarf.

He should have looked for him.

“Forgive me,” He pleads, holding his father’s too thin face between his palms, “I should have known.”

Tears stream from his eyes like little rivers, nose running messily. His chest aches as he heaves lungfuls of air into them, trying to calm his grief, his guilt so he can simply speak. He’s limited to choked off weeping that blurs his vision. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

“No,” Thrain says. “How you known?”

Thorin releases his hold, doubling over and falling into panicked breathing, howling loudly, eyes burning - his father cannot even form a proper sentence.

Gandalf helps his father again, though he hears the mumbling but does not see his efforts.

Thrain reaches for him and pulls him upright, off the dirty floor.

He mimics his father’s sitting position at his request, using lazy Inglishmêk.

“You look like your mother.”

The statement surprises him, leaves him speechless. Thrain raises a hesitant hand then runs a finger over his forehead, down the length of his nose, the line of his beard.

“I’m always told I look like you,” Thorin hiccups.

Thrain looks at Gandalf, “Poor child.”

Gandalf huffs a genuine laugh, still ushering the majority of the company away from the scene.

His shoulders shake as he regains some control, wiping away the wetness from his eyes in vain, he doesn’t know why he bothers, tears slip and fall endlessly.

“It’s okay,” His father assures him, opening his arms.

He falls into Thrain’s embrace before he can stop himself, wordlessly crying so deeply he barely makes a sound - his father’s arms wind around his shoulders, a hand cups the back of his head.

He feels his father hold up one of his braids. He looks up and watches as Thrain reads the engraving carefully. His beads have not changed since adolescence.

They release each other. He lets go hesitantly, as though his father is about to miracously disappear.

“You have not married,” Thrain states. “Why?”

“The sickness,” He responds, sniffling, “I am afraid.”

“I understand,” his father agrees, dragging the cloth of his coat over his legs.

Thorin cannot hold back the sob that rips its way out of his throat. He understands? His father _understands_. No one else understands.

He hears Gandalf order the company to rest, allowing them to make a fire and prepare food. For his father’s sake, for his sake, he does not know. Both he and Radagast have declared Dol Guldur officially abandoned.

“I have other children.”

“Aye,” Thorin agrees, “Frerin and Dís.”

“Frerin…” His father reiterates, pondering. His face grows sullen. “He died.”

“Yes.”

“Dís? My daughter, your sister. She married before I left for Erebor, did she not?”

Thorin wipes his face with the back of his head, ridding it of tears and snot.

“Yes, Father. She has two boys, Fili and Kili. Her husband died in battle.”

Thrain and Thorin are offered a bowl of food each by a hesitant Balin. Balin turns to leave but halts when Thrain grasps his wrist.

_“Fundin?”_ His father stares in wonder. He knows why his father is confused, Thrain was there when Fundin was brutally killed at the Battle of Azanulbizar.

“No, My Lord,” Balin manages, “I’m Balin, Fundin’s eldest son.”

Gandalf’s magic has been a gift from Mahal itself it seems, as his father’s memories are now allowed space in his mind.

“Balin,” He whispers, “Balin?”

Balin’s lip quivers as he smiles. His father turns to him.

“Your friend, your sparring partner,” Thrain looks to Balin, “Your brother. Is he…”

“Dwalin,” Thorin assists, “Dwalin is alive.”

“Let me see.”

Balin rushes away from them, returning with Dwalin at his side.

“My Lord,” Dwalin greets, bowing.

His father actually chuckles, the sound dragging memories and nostalgia from the depths of Thorin’s very heart and dragging more tears to his eyes. His head pounds with the force of emotion, a headache throbs harshly behind his brow.

“It has been a long time since I’ve heard that title. I trust you remember the promise you made me, Dwalin?”

“I have, My Lord,” Dwalin whispers, “I have.”

Thorin does not understand what they are talking about but doesn’t care much for it, watching carefully as his father scoops up some potato from his stew and chews appreciatively.

Balin and Dwalin leave them alone.

“Thorin, you know you must let me go, now, son,” Thrain says slowly. Thorin’s heart clenches in his chest at the truth of it. “Gandalf’s magic is not permanent and I think…” His waves his bowl around, as though encompassing his years and years of suffering into the gesture, “… I deserve to rest.”

“Yes, Father.”

Thrain raises an eyebrow.

“Erebor is not far from here, Father, you should be buried closer to our home.”

“I understand,” his father replies, and continues eating.

**

Thrain is given time to bathe.

Gandalf keeps a close eye on him, using his magic to keep his mind sane, clear.

Fili and Kili are warned to keep their emotions distant, their grandfather is not going to be in their lives very long. He begs them not to become too attached.

He reminds himself to do the same.

They never listen, do they?

They prattle on, never ending, amusing his father to no end, dragging laughter out of him and making him smile with their childish ways.

He tells them about their father, both Fili and Kili hang on to every word.

The whole company do.

Thorin does.

"I am proud of you, son," Thrain tells him.

His father drags him close as he grows upset, patting his back and calming him down, like he did when Thorin, Frerin and Dís were children.

**

Worry grows heavy in his mind.

Gandalf suggests he let Thrain go once the war is won.

_Will the war be won? Will he come out victorious?_

He does not know.

He does not take the risk. He will not allow his father to see him fall, by sword or by greed, should sickness overcome him.

Opening the door to Erebor allows time to visit the old burial tombs, where the bodies of their Kings should be laid to rest.

His father lays dutifully on the tomb.

Thrain understands his reasoning. His father smiles at him and holds his hand close to his chest. Gandalf fusses around them.

“I love you,” Thrain says. 

“I love you too,” Thorin whispers back, watching as magic seeps into his father’s body, clouding his eyes with impending death - painless, _deserving._

“Dada,” he sobs, face buried in his father’s chest. “Dada.”

-

The war is won.

Oh, how terrible the events have become.

Dead Dwarves surround him, torn from their families and their homes.

Thorin breathes heavily, every gasp of air is punishment, broken ribs cruelly restricting his chest. A gaping wound in his chest is the final stroke.

He is dying.

How could he even beg for his sister’s forgiveness? He promised this Quest would not take him from her.

It becomes apparent he will not last the time to see her. It tears a relieved sob from him.

He is selfish, he knows.

Fili and Kili weep and beg for him to be healed, despite knowing the cause is lost.

Dwalin presses a kiss to his forehead. Thorin smiles softly at the touch.

"I promised him I’d take care of you," Dwalin croaks.

"You did not fail him," Thorin heaves, pressing a gentle kiss to his lip.

He reaches over, hand guided by Dwalin, and grasps his father’s hand in his own, tomb still open.

He is selfish.

He clenches his hand around Thrain’s, ignoring the cold, clammy touch.

His father understands.

_Dada understands._

End


End file.
